


fragment

by rivkat



Series: Only Sweeter [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Amnesia, Eight crazy nights, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-03
Updated: 2011-04-03
Packaged: 2017-10-17 12:04:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/176679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rivkat/pseuds/rivkat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For thuviaptarth: Dean POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	fragment

When Dean asked about Sam’s memories of learning to walk, Sam said that most people didn’t remember much of anything until they were four or five. Dean hadn’t picked learning to walk for any particular reason; he just didn’t know how it worked, the whole memory thing.

“What’s the first thing you remember?” he asked Sam as a follow-up. He had about two questions before Sam got antsy—like Sam was ashamed of being a whole person when Dean wasn’t. He’d ask about Sam’s past whenever it seemed like Sam was in a mood to give him more. Dean didn’t think it was about living vicariously through Sam; he just wanted to know who Sam was. He thought about it like this: if he’d been in a wheelchair, he wouldn’t have wanted Sam to pretend not to be able to walk. Not that Sam would have enjoyed that comparison one bit, so he didn’t share it.

Anyway, Sam chewed over that question for a while before he answered. “My brother,” he said, which Dean totally should have expected. Some days he kind of hated poor dead John Winchester, which was really unfair but nonetheless true. Despite Sam’s occasional grumblings, it was obvious that Sam thought the man had walked on water, and Dean was acutely aware that he was a damn disappointing substitute, a paper-doll cutout compared to the real man.

“What about him?” Dean wasn’t a glutton for punishment, not entirely. It was just that, for all his sighing and sad eyes, Sam seemed better after he’d shared one of his memories of John, as if he might be able to keep him alive in somebody else’s head. And (another thing Dean was never going to say to Sam), Dean certainly had the room to store Sam’s shared reminiscences.

Sam’s eyes unfocused, and his lips turned up. “Tying my shoes,” he said. “‘Don’t trip,’ he told me. I was probably three? He barely knew how to tie his own shoes, but—” He stopped and blinked. Dean recognized that the moment was over. If he didn’t cheer Sam up, the night was going to go downhill quick.

“Speaking of ties,” Dean said, and grabbed for the red-and-blue-striped annoyance he’d worn as an FBI agent for about eight hours too long that day. He held it out invitingly, wrapping one end around his wrist.

Sam tilted his head, like he was thinking about calling Dean on his diversionary tactics. But then he must’ve remembered just how much he liked Dean’s diversionary tactics, because he smiled and raised his eyebrows, drawing Dean towards him easy as water flowing downhill, and that was the end of the night’s history lesson.


End file.
